On the side of Main Street of Hartsville, SC sits an insignificant looking store with dusty windows. Sandwiched between a Security and Loans building and a tanning salon, the store is easy to miss. The store’s bare exterior holds a sharp contrast compared to the blinking lights of the cinema across the street. Upon first glance, one would think it abandoned. At the top of the dusty glass storefront, a faded sign with peeling green letters reads, “Vacuum Center. Sales and Service. Antiques, Vintage Furniture Refurnishing.” The words are almost invisible.
A crude homemade sign on the window reads “Mattress Sale.” Torn corners of long gone flyers adorn the window. A thick, opaque layer of dust on the windows frustrates all my attempts to look inside. The same dust also covers the door. The interior is dimly lit, for my reflection dominates the glass. From the little I can see, I make out a few pieces of furniture. A brightly colored painting of trees stands out among the furniture on the window display. A scattered mound of wood shavings with a shoe print in it lines the threshold of the door that stands to the right of the window display. A piece of duct tape, black and grimy from the hands that have touched it, holds the door handle together. I hesitate for a moment before entering. Other than the fading green sign, the building shows no signs of a functioning business. The building looks exhausted, for it has stood for a hundred years. I hear it groan as I open the door.
Inside, an overwhelming clutter fills a simple four-sided room. A desolate field of old vacuum cleaners lines the right wall. The battered vacuums lean tiredly against the wall, and in place of their once powerful roars, only an unsettling silence remains. Among the vacuums lie unused bottles of paint, varnish, and labeless cans. A cracked purple bucket holding a broken cuckoo clock adds the only splash of color to the field of dusty brown and gray. A forsaken yard of armoires, drawers, tables, and chairs fills the entire left half of the store. Upon close inspection, the furniture is surprisingly in good shape. However, the new coats and shiny finishes struggle to shine through the layers of dust. Nothing remotely resembles order. Chairs on the verge of tipping magically suspend in the air, and upturned tables fit themselves together into untraceable patterns. A withered American flag lies on a desk with mismatched legs. A pile of glass trinkets sits on a chest of drawers. Nearby, odd assortments of oriental lamps display images of rice fields and cranes on their bases. A bowl of rotting plastic fruit serves as a centerpiece of a crippled table. Nothing in the store aligns. Broken mirrors and paintings on the wall hang askew. Even the fluorescent lights slant in their rigid lines.
A small collection of analog clocks hangs in the left corner. The clocks, like everything else in the store, hang askew. Despite their shabby appearance, the clocks all read the correct time. It strikes me as odd that someone had taken the effort to set the clocks to the correct time, yet be so careless in their placement. I stop rustling around the store for a minute to listen. Each clock ticks to its own beat. The offbeat ticking adds a strange discomfort to the atmosphere. Carrying a large rug, two men in overalls walk past. The clocks tick. They drop the rug onto the pavement outside and walk back into the store. As they pass, they spare a brief glimpse in my direction. The clocks keep on ticking. A small piece of dust floats from the ceiling and settles on a small dresser.
A candy dispenser, house to ancient gumballs, sits on a counter. Behind it sits a woman reading an old subscription of Country Home. She briefly glances up with a disinterested look as I walk past but immediately resumes scanning her articles. An unplugged computer with a grimy monitor and dusty power button sits on a desk in front of her. Mounds of paper in no organizational structure surround the counter. I make out a few receipts and order forms for various pieces of furniture. A bedpost, half varnished, leans against the counter with the brown dye dripping to the floor. Older subscriptions of Country Home and obscure antique furniture catalogs clog the floor. A almost empty pad of vacuum repair forms sits on the edge of the counter. A sign hanging high above the clutter mound reads, “Not responsible for goods left over 30 days.” My mind flashes back to the abandoned vacuums at the front of the store. Broken parts of vacuums lay strewn on the floor next to a stack of vacuum filter paper in all size. Amidst the black and dusty mess, the woman’s pink cardigan glows softly.
Deep within the store hides a small, square office. On the outside wall, a faded piece of paper reads “Hard work, low pay.” The sign initially strikes me as funny. For all the employees’ hard work, the store has not much to show. A pool of papers and bills completely overwhelms a desk in the middle of the room. If not for a single wooden corner peeking out from under the mess, the desk would be unnoticeable. A worn copy of A Guide to Antiques sits on top of the pile. The loose binding and folded corners reflect the countless thumbs that have diligently scanned the pages. Empty coke bottles and coffee cups of late nights sprawl on the floor. Shoes with missing partners sit resignedly next to old receipts and candy wrappers. A crumpled receipt shows a transaction for a single bottle of Minwax polyurethane varnish. Frames of arrowheads line the walls, and even these all hang slightly askew. Yellowed certificates on the wall read “Best of Darlington County: Best Antique Shop” for years 2005 and 2007. Faded pictures of children playing in a garden frame the certificates. A thin layer of dust sadly dulls the smiling faces.
The clutter parts to form a small walkway that leads to the back of the store. A single florescent light in the middle of the ceiling illuminates the square room. More rejected armoires and wooden drawers pile up into unstable hills. Unlike the front displays, the furniture in this part of the store has yet to be restored. Many of the pieces still show the nicks and scratches of everyday use. I see a faint “Kate” scratched on a small white rocking chair. I imagine it used to sit in a nursery once. In complete defiance of the somber mood of the store, the chair still holds its childlike brightness. A matching table stands next to the chair. The white top reflects the countless art projects of its owner. Streaks of crayon and colored pencils adorn the surface. I make out a faint outline of a flower. It saddens me that in a few short days, the top will probably be painted over with a shiny new white finish. A stack of glass panes sit in the corner. The shapes range from the class circle to a contemporary style wave. A shattered mirror stands next to the glass panes. Each broken piece repeats the same reflection—myself surrounded by an overwhelming clutter.
A forest of rolled up rugs stand sternly against the back wall. As I study a particularly intricate checkerboard pattern on a rug, I accidently knock one to the floor. A small mushroom cloud of dust cover my shoes and sting my nostrils. After the dust settles, the rug’s pattern catches my eye. The fallen rug displays a delicate pattern of roses and leaves. The leaves and blossoms weave into an elaborate garden pattern. Pieces of once white fabric serve as yellowed lattice in which the roses weave and tangle. It is an elegant pattern, although its vibrant colors have now faded. The once blooming flowers now only wilt in resignation.
Due to the slow appearance of business, I wonder how the store remains in business. No advertisements hang outside to attract people, and the chaos of the store adds nothing to its appeal. An old man in a green rocking chair kindly reminds me, “When the economy is down, shops like these do well. Everybody’s looking for cheap furniture and cheap is what we’ve got.” The man’s face suddenly takes an expression of nostalgia as he begins naming the store’s past lives. Originally a grocery store, the store had been a sporting goods store, bakery, appliances, and now for the past thirty-seven years, a cross breed of vacuum and antique furniture store. I ask him the reason for selling both antique furniture and vacuum cleaners. He replies “I used to just sell and fix broken vacuum cleaners. Then I fixed up some of my own furniture, and what do you know, people liked it. Now I sell it in my store.” He then adds, “I know it doesn’t look like much, but a place like this’s got a history and character. Those fancy stores like Wal Mart, well they’re having tough times maybe, but not us. I just in fact sold a sofa for $200 this morning.” The man’s answer surprises me. It seems improbable that such a shabby looking store could possibly be in business after all these years, but it is thriving in times of recession when all other businesses are struggling.
As I exit, I quietly ask why he has never changed the sign—it’s barely noticeable. He chuckles and replies, “Well, there’s no use getting a sign when you can’t see it.” I look up to see what he means and my eyes meet a tree in full bloom, completely hiding the store from public view.
(Written: September 2008 -- my jab at a descriptive piece)
